Crimes Most Merry and Albright

by Larissa Reinhart

  "Uh…"

  "Miss Albright."

  "I need to call you back," I said. "A car's slowing down in front of Martha Mae's house."

  Thirteen

  Cherry Tucker

  I'd forced myself against the grogginess and haze to evaluate what I knew against what I thought I knew. Mrs. Boyes had disappeared from view. Whether she'd hurt her back or had been strangled by Santa was yet to be determined. Pearl had gone over there and not returned. She could be helping Mrs. Boyes. Or something else had happened.

  Then the nephew — Santa? — had moved Mrs. Boyes's tree. Mrs. Boyes who hadn't touched the tree in all the Christmases I remembered visiting Great Gam. Nor the Christmases after moving into Great Gam's in-town home from Grandpa's farm. Mrs. Boyes wouldn't abide the changing any of her decorations, let alone a tree. She made the exact same cookies every year. Unfortunately. Hung the same wreath on her door.

  Then this man had threatened my pregnant sister. That angered me beyond belief.

  At that thought, the ice melted from my toes. Heat poured off my neck. Who was this supposed nephew? Pearl wasn't here to answer that question. I wasn't sending Casey over there to ask. Then I remembered Pearl had said Gertie Sweetly was Martha Mae's best friend. I didn't know Gertie Sweetley, but she'd know me. Everyone in Halo over the age of fifty-five knew me through my grandparents.

  And through stories about my notorious mother. And maybe some stories about notorious me.

  This was all confirmed when Gertie Sweetley realized who was calling. "Cherry Tucker, the town council has already chosen someone to paint the water tower. We have to use a professional company who's licensed and insured. And we don't want some gewgaw painted on the side. It's a rust-proof, army-gray type of job."

  "Ma'am. That's not what I'm calling about—although something as tall as a water tower would be a fine place to represent town pride, but if y'all feel Halo is only worth army gray, then enjoy. I'm calling about your friend and my neighbor, Mrs. Boyes. She's got some strange visitors."

  Gertie Sweetley snorted. "And even if we were to paint an angel on the water tower, you'd give us one of those abstract messes. Or worse. I know about those nekkid men paintings you did. Angels wear robes."

  I sighed. "Miss Gertie. I really don't want to paint an angel on the water tower. And even if I did, it wouldn't be a nude. Even though nudes happen to be a classic representation of the human form used in art for longer than three thousand years."

  "They never painted angels nekkid. I can tell you that for sure."

  "I'm not arguing with you, Miss Gertie. Nude lends itself more to gods and goddesses. Although Michelangelo seemed to enjoy it in Biblical representation." I gave into a fit of coughing. She was wearing me out, and I hadn't even gotten to the point of the conversation. "I really just want to ask you about Mrs. Boyes's nephew who's visiting."

  "Martha Mae doesn't have a nephew visiting."

  "There's a man in her house who says he's her nephew."

  "Oh, my stars," said Gertie. "A surprise Christmas guest. I wonder if she stocked up before this weather hit. Is that why you're calling? Does she need something? I bet she didn't buy a turkey. But why wouldn't Martha Mae call me if she needed a turkey? Anyway, I don't have an extra turkey, and I'm not running out to the Tru-Buy in this weather. Besides, the Tru-Buy is out of turkeys. She needs to go to Line Creek. The Winn Dixie is still stocked.”

  I closed my eyes, leaned back against my bed rails, and stared up at Snug. He was bathed in multi-colored lights, like the shrine on the wall at the nail salon. "Miss Gertie. Ma'am. I just want to know about Martha Mae's nephew."

  "Don't tell me you're planning on cozying up to her nephew. I thought you were stepping out with JB's stepson? The deputy. And with him involved in this awful mess in town. Are you not seeing him no more? That poor man. But maybe it's for the best."

  I opened my mouth and shut it before I said something I regretted. "I am not looking for a date, Miss Gertie. This nephew is old enough to be my father anyway. I am concerned that he is not a good sort. He moved Mrs. Boyes's tree."

  "No, he didn't."

  "He did. In front of her side window."

  "Martha Mae wouldn't allow such a thing. She always places it in that corner opposite the front window so everyone can see her tree but not block the window, so she can see out. Martha Mae thought a lot about the tree placement over the years. She's tried it centered on the opposite wall, but then it interferes with the placement of her couch and she likes to watch her shows in the evening. Plus, you shouldn't put a live tree near a fireplace. That's asking for trouble."

  "Exactly. Which is why I want to know who this so-called nephew is."

  "I have no idea. But I can tell you this. He better not move any more of her things. She's not going to be happy when she finds her tree moved."

  "Do you mean she's not at home? Do you know where Mrs. Boyes is?"

  "No, hon'. But she can't be home if he's moved her tree, now can she?"

  After hanging up, I watched Mrs. Boyes's tree lights blink and thought about the likelihood of Mrs. Boyes not being home. Casey had said her back was out. Maybe I should have mentioned that fact to Miss Gertie, but it was a road I didn't feel like exploring. Partly because the conversation exhausted me. And partly because I didn't want Miss Gertie getting any bright ideas about visiting her friend with the weather, bad roads, and Pearl already missing.

  Come to think of it, Pearl would have told off the nephew for moving his aunt's tree, too.

  The cost of the conversation was the creeping heat of fever. I shuddered with bone-aching chills and slid below my quilt. I pulled the quilt around my head and lay on my side, trying to analyze our conversation. Something else she'd said had bothered me. But now I couldn't remember. And it was getting difficult to stay awake again. I reached for my sketchbook to add a tree and Pearl, then closed my eyes for a minute.

  Damn flu.

  * * *

  My dreamless sleep was interrupted by Casey, who claimed we'd have our own unexpected guest. The movie star. Who was as suspicious as Mrs. Boyes's nephew in my book.

  I couldn't believe Casey had let that woman into my house. I couldn't stay awake for the life of me. And somewhere during my last slumber, Casey had invited the movie star to spend the night.

  "The roads are iced over," Casey had said. "And Maizie's stuck. We can't let her sleep in her car. It's Christmas time, ain't it?"

  "If it's that bad, I hope you're not planning to drive home," I said. "You take the guest bed, it's got a better mattress to support that extra weight you're carrying. The movie star can have my room. But we'll have to change the sheets."

  Casey laughed at me. "She's fine with the couch. I've got Great Gam's plastic tree up, by the way."

  Can you put it in here? I'd almost said, then caught myself. I'd almost forgotten I didn't do Christmas trees. "Keep it out there. Did you see Mrs. Boyes's bubble lights? You could take some pointers from her."

  Then I'd fallen asleep. Again. I hated this flu. I was so damn weak it was pitiful.

  After waking, I glared at glowing Snug. And then at Mrs. Boyes's tree, which I could see much better as it was pushed up against the window.

  Also, something else was going on. Casey was acting extra nice. She didn't do extra nice. Even with child.

  I tried calling Luke, but couldn't get through, figuring the bad roads must keep him extra busy. I didn't want him to see me like this. But then again, I really wanted to see him. He'd snuggle in bed next to me to rub my shoulders and stroke my hair. Tell me about all the accidents and arrests he'd handled. I loved cop stories. But mostly, I just wanted him here. For no apparent reason.

  Damn flu making me addle-brained.

  Casey appeared in my doorway with a steaming mug. "You want to try some chicken soup?"

  My stomach rolled, but my mouth felt parched. "Maybe. What's the movie star doing?"

  "She ain't a movie star. Maizie's a private investigator. I have he
r business card."

  "Anybody can make a business card, Casey. Thank God we got nothing worth robbing in this house."

  "I know you don't mean it," said Casey. "You're just worried about—"

  "What am I worried about?" I squinted at her.

  "Pearl," she spit out the name quickly. "And Mrs. Boyes. Someone else showed up at her house. Maizie's gone over there to see who it is."

  "Who does that kind of thing?" I took the mug and let the steam heat my face. "Sneaking around someone's house like that?"

  "You, for one," said Casey. "On a number occasions. When you think somebody's up to something no good."

  "Well, that's different." I sipped the soup and eased back, letting the savory heat trickle down my throat. My head wanted more, my stomach wasn't sure. "In those circumstances, I had evidence of criminal wrong-doing and was helping friends in need."

  "That's exactly the same thing, except this Maizie is a professional. And you're not."

  I gave Casey my best stink-eye.

  She snorted. "What was that?"

  I guess the illness had also weakened that effect.

  "I found more boxes of Christmas lights," said Casey. "And there's a box in the guest room closet with your name. It also has decorations. Can I use them?"

  "No." I chewed my lip. "Whatever. I'm too sick to care. There's a stocking in there that Grandma Jo made for me. You can have it for the baby."

  "When's the last time you hung up that stocking?" Casey folded her arms. "Grandma Jo embroidered it with an angel carrying a paintbrush, right? I haven't seen that in years."

  "Fifteen. I thought I was too old for Santa."

  "Fifteen is how old you were when Grandma Jo died."

  I looked up at the lights wrapped around Snug. "You can use it this year. I'm sure Santa visits those in utero."

  As soon as Casey had left, I wrapped the blankets around my shoulders, turned off the lights, and crept to the window. With their soft glow, Snug's Christmas lights held off the edge of complete darkness. Hanging across the room, they didn't hinder my ability to see out the window. I left them on. I didn't have much of a view with the Christmas tree blocking Mrs. Boyes's living room.

  But the glow from her house lights still illuminated the window, creating a hazy spotlight on the winter wonderland outside. And I could see a shape, crouching on the ground at the corner of Mrs. Boyes's house. The shape appeared to be watching the front of the house. Movie Star. Getting herself into trouble, likely.

  I crossed back to get my mug of chicken soup. I needed to get over this flu fast. She was going to need my help.

  Fourteen

  Maizie Albright

  #BabyItsColdOutside #ReallyCold #ReallyReallyCold

  * * *

  The artist's drive was on the opposite side of the house from Martha Mae's. I had to leave the house and cross to Martha Mae's to see anything. The wind had died down, but the air felt thin and sharp. Woodsmoke from nearby fireplaces stung my lungs, but I also tasted wet pine from the surrounding trees. Casey had lent me another pair of mittens, which helped. A little. I felt like I'd never feel warm again.

  If I'd been thinking I would have borrowed Carol Lynn's DeerNose weather apparel. Smelling like deer pee would be the least of my worries now. Frostbite, yes. Also, the camo would have come in handy with all this prowling.

  Next time I see Daddy, I might advise him on a Christmas camouflage collection. Maybe poinsettias and holly? And to skip the scent. Deer don’t celebrate Christmas.

  A car, a Toyota sedan, had inched along the street, fishtailed, and slowed to a crawl as it reached Martha Mae's. The Toyota now idled behind Martha's parked car. Had Krystal finally showed?

  I felt and heard the rumble of the garage door. My heart pounding, I backed from the edge of the house and flattened against the wall. Hearing nothing more than the garage door and the still-running car, I peeked around the corner.

  Jay tramped into view. With a scraper, he chipped off ice then entered Mrs. Boyes's Buick. He backed into the grass, around the idling car, and parked on the street. Exiting the car, he shoved his hands in his pockets and tread up the drive. Stopping at the visitor's car, he leaned in. The car's window rolled down and the murmur of voices hung in the still air. It looked like a single driver. A moment later, Jay turned to face the house.

  I shrank back against the wall.

  Maybe another relative was coming to take care of Martha Mae. So nice, right? No doubt, Pearl was in the bedroom with her. Too busy applying hot compresses to talk. I could go back to the artist's house and drink hot chocolate with her pregnant sister. Their house might be chilly and leaky, but it wasn't the ice bath I felt out here.

  "Yeah right." Julia Pinkerton sneered. "Here's how this is going down. You need to get inside that garage to look around. Then you can get inside the house. Keep low. Nobody's watching. I've done this a million times. Which means you've done it a million times, acting as me on the show."

  "Are you insane?" I thought. "That wasn't even real. The writers made sure you weren't killed. There are no writers in real life."

  Oh, my God, I was the one who's insane. Arguing with a fictional character inside my head.

  Taking a deep breath, I peered around the edge of the house. The waiting car pulled into the garage. Jay followed, stomping and rubbing his hands together. Martha Mae's car remained on the street.

  I held my breath, stood, and sidled around the edge of the house. With my heart pounding in my head, I darted across the front yard. Ducked as I crossed before the porch. Before reaching the drive, I leaped behind a bush next to the garage.

  This was the stupid Nash had spoken of. So stupid.

  Keeping my back against the house, I glanced inside the garage. Two cars. The visiting vehicle plumed exhaust and cut off. The car door opened, but the driver had bent into the passenger seat to retrieve something. Jay circled the car and stopped at the back.

  I dropped to the icy, wet ground, sliding to hide my body beneath the hedge. A holly. Prickly. And full of berries. Under the holly, fallen leaves rustled and rattled. I halted my slide. My shoulders and chest didn't fit beneath the shrub. If Jay and the other driver stepped outside the garage, they'd see me, lying Sphinx-like beneath a holly.

  What was it with me and bushes today?

  Someone was speaking. A woman. I didn't dare peer around the side of the garage.

  "Unlock it," said Jay, followed by a thump.

  "What're you doing?" called the woman's voice. "I told you it's not your business."

  Did he want her to open the trunk?

  A metallic pop and a creak answered that question.

  "Shee-it," Jay muttered. "Why'd you get stuck with this mess? And now we're stuck here. Damn ice."

  I held my breath and clamped my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering. My flattened stomach shot flames into my chest. Warming as well as painful. Cranking my head, I could just see the opposite edge of the garage. A pair of men's boots faced the car.

  The trunk door slammed shut. "I'll take care of this mess. As usual."

  "Don't give me that crap," said the woman. "I've been taking care of myself long enough. And done pretty good with what I've been dealt, I'd say."

  A tremor worked its way through my legs. My shoulders shook, making the metal zipper on my coat jingle. Ducking, I placed my forehead on the corner of the drive to push my chest against the ground and stop the noise.

  "Fine way to spend Christmas," said Jay.

  "Right." Her forced laugh sounded brittle. "Because our other ones were so great."

  "What were you doing asking Celia about Martha Mae? You put her on our tail. Celia sent a woman down here, and she's asking questions."

  "We'll be gone soon enough."

  "We ain't going anywhere with this ice. And we don't need you getting hot-headed again."

  "I don't need your advice, of all people," said Krystal. "I've been doing just fine on my own."

  The woman had talked to Celia Fowl
er. She must be Krystal. I found myself feeling pity for Krystal. She was a product of her upbringing.

  "You can't get yourself out of this without my help," said Jay. "You wouldn't have called me otherwise."

  "What do you want? A thank you note? You know what you're getting from this."

  "I thought you were headed in the right direction for once," said Jay. "I told you to steer clear of her."

  "Had no choice."

  Who was her? Mrs. Fowler? But Krystal only took money from her grandmother. She didn't steer near her grandmother at all.

  Unless her grandmother hadn’t told us the truth. That thought made my chest hurt. It felt the equivalent to Vicki’s “Let’s talk about Santa and who really buys the toys around here” speech.

  "Well, now I ain't got a choice either, do I?" Jay's boots clomped, stopping near my edge of the garage. "I couldn't do you right back then, I'll have to do you right now."

  "Whatever."

  I slithered backward, pushing myself into the corner of the house and garage.

  A car alarm bloop-bleeped followed by another heavy, metallic pop. A trunk opening. Jay was checking the other trunk. A moment later the lid slammed shut. Boots tromped toward the far end of the garage. The garage door rumbled. An inside door slammed shut.

  Scooting closer to the garage, I peered around the side. Flattening on the drive, I peered beneath the descending door. A woman walked toward the back of the garage. In a bulky coat and hat that hid her completely.

  The garage door clanged against the cement, sending a cloud of dust into my face.

  * * *

  Retreating to my holly bush corner, I regrouped. I needed to be certain that the newcomer was Krystal. But I really needed to find Pearl for the neighbors. And Martha Mae for myself.

  I could watch from inside the artist's house like I'd promised Nash. Except I wouldn't be able to see anything. Sorry, Nash.

  Stretching, I noted my silver jacket had gone camo. Streaks of brown and orange mud covered my puffy coat, pants, and boots. Private investigator work was so hard on my wardrobe. I tried not to think of the cost of my Gianvito Rossi boots. At least I had chosen leather over suede.